


What We Are

by Cormack_the_Crow



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical The Beholding Content (The Magnus Archives), Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, I mean, It's Kinda Both, Original Institute, Original Statement (The Magnus Archives), Quote: Statement Begins (The Magnus Archives), That's not important but it's important to ME, The Beholding Fear Domain (The Magnus Archives), The Stranger Fear Domain (The Magnus Archives), canon-typical inappropriate breaks for tea, season 5, think someone read this beforehand? ha! you no beta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29212017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cormack_the_Crow/pseuds/Cormack_the_Crow
Summary: Jon and Martin discover a domain run by a reluctant avatar from a sister Institute. A domain where you cannot escape what others think you are.(In other words, fan Stranger/Eye domain! Because why not combine two Fears that on the face of it seem like opposites.)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 15





	What We Are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Surgeworks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Surgeworks/gifts).



> A gift for Surgeworks, who requested a look at what the other Eye avatars are up to! I figured, hey, anyone who worked at the Institute got their own domain. What about other Institutes/Foundations/assorted folks? More detailed explanation in the bottom notes.
> 
> Hey, if you're reading this and you write (or honestly just like) fan statements or other horror fanworks, want to join a discord? I'm trying to create a small community of fellow horror writers/readers so we can discuss OCs, the Fears, and anything else that strikes our fancy. Link here: https://discord.gg/yeyFPm7TR2
> 
> Content warnings:  
> -Depersonalization  
> -Blood  
> -Violence  
> -Listen this is basically a domain based on people's warped perceptions of others

The mundane ones were the worst, Martin decided. He’d cut his teeth on sentient worm infestations and hallways that stretched hours into weeks. He couldn’t say he was _fond_ of blood and guts, but at least he knew what to expect. The frightening part of the Desolation domain had been the fire. The Mortal Garden was made up of carefully pruned and shaped people. That he understood. The Lonely, meanwhile, had been nothing more than a clock and a cheap plastic chair. The Hunt had been a forest. It wasn’t what he saw that scared him, it was the things they hid.

All of this to say that he was not pleased when a road lined with cameras led into a convention center that looked as though it had been torn from a hotel and dropped into the apocalypse quite by accident. He and Jon entered through a door helpfully labeled ‘Community Day’ by a laminated paper taped to the frame. Dozens, no, hundreds of people milled about in the center of the room. Carafes of milk sat by boxes of sweeteners and tea on a cloth-covered table by the entrance. Urns of coffee and hot water made up the end of the line. Martin sighed. Doubtless opening the sachets of tea would instead release a swarm of spiders, or reveal an unblinking eye, or something even worse. The apocalypse had a way of stealing away the little pleasures of life.

To his surprise, Jon didn’t seem to hold any such reservations. He tore open a bag of earl gray and plopped it in a waxy paper cup. The hot water spat and gurgled as he poured it, but it was very much water, not blood, or cerebrospinal fluid, or whatever else the apocalypse liked to conjure in its stead. Evidently noticing Martin’s quirked eyebrow, Jon shrugged. “It _is_ tea, Martin.” He took a sip that was more air than liquid, then pulled a face. “Not particularly _good_ tea,” he confessed.

Having dealt with the dusty off-brand that Elias kept in the office (should have been his first hint that he was evil, frankly) for years, Martin was long past caring about quality. He picked out an Irish breakfast. As he doctored it to what he hoped was acceptability he asked, “This is an Eye domain, isn’t it?”

Jon nodded. “I’d prefer not to stay here any longer than necessary, though.”

“Oh, so now you admit tea is necessary,” Martin joked. “Alright, lead on.”

It only took a glance at the undulating sea of people for Jon to grab onto Martin’s hand and tug him close. The chatter grew louder as they walked away from the table of refreshments.

Barely three steps in and Martin slid, one foot on rough carpet, the other on something that glided over the surface. He threw his free hand out to catch his balance, accidentally jolting Jon backwards in the process. “Sorry, sorry!” he yelped as he lifted his left foot and shook off a waxy piece of paper lined with what looked like the outlines of stickers.

“Just caught me off guard,” Jon assured him. “Come on.”

They couldn’t have gotten a meter closer to the red exit sign on the other side of the convention center when a woman placed herself between them and it. Her wavy brown hair was tied back, but something about her reminded Martin of the type of actresses he only ever saw in shampoo commercials. He set to memorizing her features if only because he wasn’t convinced he’d remember what she looked like otherwise. Hazel eyes, light tan skin, freckles smattered across the bridge of her nose. She could have been from anywhere, been anyone. And at that time she was choosing to be right there, proudly displaying a nametag ringed with abstract symbols and with ‘Marie’ written in swooping Sharpie in the center. “Hello!” she chirped, her eyes drinking in every last flyaway hair and muddy scuff on the two of them. “What are you?”

“Er,” was Martin’s first attempt at a reply. There didn’t look to be anything wrong with her, but so far speaking to victims had only ever ended poorly for him. Trevor: nearly had his throat cut. Detective: guilt tripped and then yelled at. Hitomi: well, admittedly she’d just freaked him out. _When this whole apocalypse thing is over I’m really going to have to work on social skills_ , he thought. His second attempt at a reply was, “Martin?”

Jon said nothing, just pressed his lips together as if to prevent the escape of any stray words. A worm of doubt crawled through Martin’s stomach. Perhaps he ought not share his name with strangers, even if they weren’t Strangers.

Marie didn’t seem to notice. Her smile widened, flashing too many teeth. “Sure, but _what_ are you? Where are your tags?” She tapped the nametag adorning her chest. The symbols seemed to squirm under her touch.

Having apparently already messed up once, he glanced at Jon for confirmation. In response, Jon raised his eyebrows as if to say ‘you got us into this mess’. Martin turned back to Marie with a sigh. “We don’t have any. We don’t belong here.”

Marie’s grin widened under her darkening eyes. “Nonsense, of course you belong here. But _what_ are you? Red? Blue? Bone? What _are_ you?” Her voice, initially bell-like and syrupy sweet, roughening into a desperate bark.

“We’re not anything!” Martin protested. Could the Eye hurt the Eye? What were the rules here, anyways? He could have sworn that the victims weren’t supposed to know they were there, but since when had that done him any good?

“You are!” she snapped. She couldn’t have been more than five feet, but in that moment animal instinct sent a thrill of fear up Martin’s spine. Her eyes were locked onto his chest, like she might rip him open to find the symbols, crack his ribs and ponder the patterns in his marrow. “You are!” A snarl rose out of her throat as she stepped forward.

He threw a hand in front of Jon as if to offer himself up first, but it turned out not to be necessary. Another woman wedged herself between the two, shooting Martin a glare before turning on the woman with a beatific smile. “Hello, Marie!” she greeted. “Here, don’t trouble yourself. You’re a _leaf_ , dear, you know you can’t handle all of this.”

“But—” Marie started, lip quivering in a pout.

“Trust me, trust me. I’m golden eye. I know what I’m doing, don’t I?” the new woman pressed.

For a moment, Marie hesitated as if about to argue. Then, with a huff, she turned and returned to the churning mass of people.

It was Martin’s turn to keep his mouth shut. Getting rid of one threat didn’t mean she didn’t pose another. Instead, Jon was the one to speak. “Thank you. You’re the avatar here, right?” The last sentence was not a question so much as it was a prompt.

The woman nodded. “You can call me Damali. I work at the Onoh Institute— _used to_ work at the Onoh Institute,” she corrected. She sighed and tugged at a braid that had come loose from her swirling topknot for a moment before fixing them with a steely gaze. “And _you_ are from the Magnus Institute, Archivist.” The last sentence was not a statement so much as an accusation.

Martin wondered if it was the cup of tea or his own flush that was prickling his skin. By his side, Jon shifted his weight from foot to foot. He opened his mouth, then closed it in a grimace. The discomfort in his eyes told Martin what he was going to say long before he opened his mouth to try again. Perhaps relationship telepathy wasn’t supposed to arise for another few months, but the apocalypse had a way of speeding things along. “Do you mind if I make a statement?” Jon asked.

Damali’s expression didn’t change. “No, Archivist. Why don’t _I_ make a statement? It will feed the glutton we serve all the same, won’t it?” Her honey brown eyes, nearly luminescent against her dark skin, remained fixed on them.

Jon pursed his lips before nodding. For the first time in a long time, he murmured, “Statement begins.”

#

You know who I am, Archivist. You’re the one who pulled our god from whatever plane it had lain resting, bloated with knowledge. But there are two of you here, and I can’t imagine you have told your partner our story. Does he even know about the other institutes? There’s a whiff of Lonely on him—the type of person who doesn’t see the world beyond their own four walls. But I’m generalizing.

When the world was real, and when Port Harcourt was real, I worked at the Onoh Institute. Not an archivist, not like you. I couldn’t imagine hiding myself away in climate-controlled darkrooms, clutching decaying paper as if it were a newborn. No, when things were real I worked in community outreach. I explained our work to schoolchildren, at conferences, during fairs. Some scoffed at our work, calling it superstition, but still more widened their eyes in wonder. One or two would even visit me in my office afterwards and ask question after question about the world I had unveiled. Your Institute was never a fan of such things, was it? Instead you hide under the gloom, hoping safety comes in secrecy.

But I’m generalizing.

Where do I start my story, then? You don’t want to hear about me, not the friends I made or the ones I lost, not what brought me to work in the things people fear. You want to hear about the domain I now rule. You want to hear about what consigned them to tearing those they don’t understand to shreds. You want the general. I’ll give you the specifics.

Devon doesn’t know what he is. Oh, he knows the symbols on his tag. Red circle bone. No one will let him forget. They smile a smile that leaves their eyes behind, but even that drops when they see the markings on his chest. _Oh_ , they say, or _hmm._ As if he were a puzzle. As if he were there to be solved. Then they make hurried excuses for their escape.

He’s tried to take them off. Ripped the tacky tag off his shirt only to find it repeated underneath. Again and again, until old tags formed a pile at his feet, until his fingers cracked and bled, until tears streamed down his cheeks. The people shook their heads. _How unbefitting. A red, acting like that. A bone, causing such dramatics. Shameful._

Panic seized him by the throat, and stripped of the blue button-up that had provided his only cover from the thousand watching eyes. They scoffed, they snarled and jeered. Their laughter turned predatory as he scratched his fingers along the outlines etched into his skin. Red circle bone. Violent, strong, but dependable. No room for fear. They descended, fellow reds bearing teeth and filed-sharp teeth. If he refuses to be what he is, let him suffer for it. They bit through his flesh and leave it flapping like cloths in the wind. Underneath the layers of skin and fat there is a message written in his veins. Red circle bone.

Some, usually the blues (though he resents himself for thinking that), walk on eggshells when they see him now. Their politeness is cloying, it drips like honey from their lips. Hot shame burns his cheeks as they trip around their words. What he says won’t change their demeanor, so he murmurs apologies for what he is and moves to the next person. His gaze will stay firmly on their shoes. Perhaps if he doesn’t look at their tags, they won’t look at his.

But they will. And then they will see someone else in his place.

Marie knows who she is. She is a green cross leaf. Green: adaptable, talkative, creative, but oh so annoying. Everyone must be so sick of her by now. Most of all the other greens. They want to run their mouths just as much as she does, it’s in their nature. Oh, they hate her. But she can’t change what she is.

Cross: Intelligent, pious, so obsessed with themselves that they would never deign to look your way.

Leaf: delicate, soft, unassuming. Weak. She’ll crumble under the slightest pressure. Maybe people would protect her if they weren’t so disgusted by her, but they know what she is. Green cross leaf. A pathetic excuse for a human being, a hypocrite who can’t handle a taste of her own medicine. What is there to hide? They’ll find out eventually. Better display it and let them decide beforehand. No one leaves you for information they already knew.

I try to keep them safe, you know. I break up fights when I can, but they all want to know. They need to know what others are so they know what they are. I am not a cruel woman. My only mistake was a love of knowledge. Was that yours? Was curiosity your undoing, as it was mine?

Is that what you wanted to hear, Archivist? Or perhaps you wanted to know what you are. Perhaps you already do know. Better not to tell.

Statement ends.

#

The silence stretched as the exit sign flickered into and out of life. The chatter of the victims faded to background static as Jon pulled in a breath that caught on the edges of his throat. “Thank you,” he said.

Damali nodded. “If that’s all you wanted, I would encourage you to move on. You can keep the tea, it replenishes itself when you look away.” She strode away, a stray nametag sticking to her shoe.

**Author's Note:**

> OKAY SO the Onoh Institute is named after Nuzo Onoh, the pioneer African Horror subgenre writer. My logic is that the Magnus Institute is named after Count Magnus and the Usher Foundation is after The Fall of the House of Usher, but none of Onoh's books have any character names in the title. The Onoh Institute is in Port Harcourt, Nigeria, because it's known for its higher learning centers. Presumably having a supernatural organization would be helpful for that, I don't know. I have already thought to much about this nonexistent institute. 
> 
> Fun fact: my friend and I have both posted fics today in which Jon has subpar tea. This was a coincidence. 
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are super appreciated! Don't worry, I'm friendly.


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